


We're All Mad Here

by slightlyrebelliouswriter



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: College AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Modern AU, POV Cardan Greenbriar, POV Jude Duarte, QoN - Freeform, Queen of nothing - Freeform, We're All Mad Here, and her bratty sub cardan, dark au, holly black - Freeform, jurdan - Freeform, knife wife jude, tcp, tfota, the cruel prince - Freeform, the folk of the air, the queen of nothing, the wicked king, tqon, twk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyrebelliouswriter/pseuds/slightlyrebelliouswriter
Summary: Jurdan College AU- Tenacious student, Jude Duarte, stops for nothing and no one in order to earn back her spot as Top Scholar of her year. But on the way to the top, she discovers a deep, dark underworld in the very heart of Insmire. It’s all just a game of Russian Roulette. Harmless, as long as you’re the one holding the gun.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar, Taryn Duarte/Locke, Taryn Duarte/The Ghost
Comments: 48
Kudos: 117





	1. Slow Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think. And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer. The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry. 

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were _born_ in a hurry. 

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early. As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not. I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us. And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch.

A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs. It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

_Seven minutes past eight._

I am really _very_ late. Or, I know I will be, at least. Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview. But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee. 

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class. And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing.

A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard. A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise. 

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

 _Yes_ , I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. _I am very much that._

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around. 

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle. 

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing. I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did.

I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick. Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision. The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors. A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning. The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm. I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go.

I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery. I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins. “Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

 _Perfect. Just perfect,_ I think with a scowl. Of _course_ the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel. A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp. 

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

_Bad idea. Very bad idea._

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just _great_.”

It’s useless, of course. The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

**~~~~~**

That’s when panic seizes hold. 

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe. 

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics. 

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

**~~~~~**

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression. 

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I _should_. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or _this_ sort of oversharing.” 

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.” 

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I _wasn’t_ having a panic attack,” I say too quickly.

He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go. The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“ _No_ ,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I _don’t_ think—because I take another step closer. The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste. My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it's been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth. In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples. I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And _don’t_ call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose. 

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for _solicited_ advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with _you_ ,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, _that’s_ a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation. I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

 _Bad move_ , I think. 

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh. “Wait. Just...” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait,” he offers.

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people _always_ seem sincere, even when they are truly not. Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care. 

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately. If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a _large_ cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This was originally sent to me as a request for the “I’m running late to an important interview/meeting and you accidentally spill your hot cocoa all over my outfit” prompt from a winter prompt list. But it spiralled into several chapter outlines and an almost fully-fledged plot so I’m rolling with it.   
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this! If you’d like to be tagged in future updates for this AU, feel free shoot me an ask/message on Tumblr. I'm @/slightlyrebelliouswriter23   
> Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. -em 🖤💫
> 
> Title Inspo: Slow Burn by Kacey Musgraves


	2. Simmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all for show, I tell myself. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Very mild cursing. Zero explicit content but there is a fun little tease. It’s all very soft focus, though. Also, at the end, a brief flashback of Jude’s backstory in this fic which might be triggering for some. I’ve marked the start of her trigger with a ~~~ in case you want to avoid.

Unfortunately Attractive Dude leads me around the counter like he owns the place. If a stranger leading me into a back room is not alarming enough, the mirthful bound in his step makes me all the more suspicious.

I glare very hard at the back of his head and hope he feels it.

“Liliver,” the man says to the white-haired barista as we pass behind her, “Another hot chocolate and one large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go. And make it snappy, we’ve got places to be.”

Liliver throws a sneer over her shoulder. “I’d make it much snappier if you said the magic words.”

“Oh, Liliver. Magic isn’t real,” he croons, “And we both know I’m above begging.”

Liliver looks like she’s considering punching him in the face. If it came down to it, I know _I’m_ not above begging for that. Or cheering. Or joining in.

“Whip?” the man says.

I blink. It takes me a second to realise he’s speaking to me. “Huh?”

A wicked smirk settles on his mouth. “Do you want whip?”

I scrunch my nose.

“No whip,” he says to Liliver, backing toward a set of silver doors in the corner.

“Who puts whipped cream on their cappuccino?” I mutter.

“Weirdos, that’s who,” Liliver tells me. “Off his rocker, this one. Be careful around him.” I give her a conspiratorial smile. I decide I like Liliver.

I decide I hate Unfortunately Attractive Dude when, for reasons entirely uncertain to me, he gives me a shit-eating grin and ducks through the swinging silver doors. Against my better judgement, I follow.

Suddenly, I’m in a small kitchen where everything from the countertops to the large fridge in the corner is made of stainless steel. The air is cold and damp, like a clammy hand. An unsettling combination of wet rags and baking bread permeates the air.

The man busies himself, pulling various items down from shelves and out of cabinets.

“Are we… allowed to be back here?” I ask. He knows the barista, that much is apparent. But surely that doesn’t excuse customers from wandering back on a whim to use the kitchens as their own personal laundromat.

“One never needs permission to be anywhere if one never asks and is never perceived,” he muses. I shoot him an incredulous look and he laughs. “I work here.”

“In _that?_ ” I jut my chin at the man’s outfit. His jacket alone is garish. Paired with all the prim and tailored rest, it seems more like something strutting down a high-end runway than any work attire I’ve ever seen.

“No, of course not in _this_ ,” he scoffs. “Come sit.” He pats the metal countertop next to the sink before continuing his search, a flurry of black and red.

“Why?” I don’t try to hide my scepticism. Better he knows I am wary of him still than try to be accommodating and find myself axe-murdered.

“Because after I’m done with your shirt,” he says, pausing to look at me, “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

 _How poetic,_ I think, then narrow my eyes. I mislike the idea of this strange man inspecting an injury conveniently located on my cleavage.

“I told you,” I say, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and setting it on the floor, “I’m fine.” But when I peel out of my coat, a sharp pang shoots across my chest. I cannot help the wince that escapes.

Clearly _not_ fine.

An arch of one dark brow tells me the man agrees with my unspoken thought. His oil-slick eyes rake over me once more, assessing. My traitorous heart does a little leap.

He pulls one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Company policy. Sorry.” His rings clang against the metal as he pats the counter again.

My teeth grit against the sound. “A likely story,” I grumble, though I am not sure he hears me. Already continuing his disassembly of the kitchen cabinets, the man does not respond.

I clamber up onto the counter with no amount of haste and sit begrudgingly amongst his collection of searched-for items: Dish soap, white wine vinegar, rubbing alcohol, a sponge, a large metal mixing bowl. He adds a first-aid kit to the growing horde.

I watch as he removes his many rings from moon pale fingers. They’re long and nimble, and I find myself wondering if he sews, as well. Or perhaps he’s a skilled pianist.

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. Then again, it’s probably a bad idea to think too much on his hands.

He flicks a handle of the faucet and tests the steady stream rushing out. Satisfied, he holds the mixing bowl under the tap.

“It’s my day off,” he tells me while the bowl fills.

“Fascinating.”

“It’s why I’m not in uniform.”

“You’re telling me you _chose_ to wear this?” I wave a hand at his ensemble.

The man turns the faucet off, frowning. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He places the bowl of warm water on the counter next to me.

“Your coat looks like a bathrobe.”

“I beg your pardon?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offence. “This jacket happens to be a masterful work of art by a very coveted designer.”

I roll my eyes. He sounds like the most pretentious kind of asshole. If I hadn’t already decided whether to like him or hate him, this would’ve given substantial weight to the latter.

“Yeah, well, it looks like something an old rich dude would wear,” I say. “Probably while having a post-bath cigar and reading the obituary section of the newspaper.”

“Personally, I much prefer the comic section, post-bath,” he mutters, squeezing a dollop of dish soap into the bowl.

Somehow, I can imagine that. This odd man in a bath full of bubbles and oils that smell like the forest, getting out only when his hands go pruny to read the Sunday comics. Then I very much want to _un_ -imagine that.

I shake my head. I need coffee. _Now._

“Lucky for you,” the man says, ripping me from my internal spiral into damnation, “You get the privilege of wearing the old dude bathrobe. Give me your shirt.”

He shrugs out of the jacket and holds it out for me, his free hand waiting expectantly for a swap. Those coal-black eyes sparkle with a dare. It’s then that I realise: They are waiting expectantly, too.

As if he anticipates I will blush and ask him to turn around so I can change in some modicum of privacy. Like a good girl. As if he expects I’m the type of woman who is accustomed to gentlemanly behaviour from men.

Little does he know, I don’t much care for chivalry—and I am most certainly not good. If he does not want to give me the courtesy of privacy, then I will not ask it of him.

It is an effort to swallow my pride. With slow hands, I pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I hold his gaze steady, out of spite.

Surprise steals across his face. It is there and then gone, brief as a breeze, and the only thing he yields.

As my fingers graze the top button, a little thrill runs through me. I must be mad for doing this. Between the interview jitters, my state of panic, and a desperate lack of caffeine, I must have completely lost my mind.

Or more likely, there was already something very wrong with me, to begin with.

Sensing my hesitation, the man’s mouth furls at the corners like unrolled parchment that reads: _You won’t do it,_ in the looping, self-important scrawl I imagine someone like him must possess. That small smirk, the second dare.

I glare at his mouth. The first button is the hardest, but I clench my jaw and undo it; then the next. 

He tracks my every move from beneath the eaves of his thick lashes. The sight of him so suspended by the strings of my fingers makes my heart rush, and I am struck by a mix of irritation and dizzying lust.

Cool air pebbles the skin on my chest as I work. I take my sweet time about it. This prick wanted a show, so it’s a show I will give him.

My fingers move carefully down the line. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I knit my brows in feigned concentration and pretend that this is nothing.

Even though my heartbeat is a war drum in my chest.

Even though his gaze is heady and my head is spinning with it.

Even though I am very glad this task does not require me to speak.

 _This is nothing._ This is nothing but three more buttons. His breath hitches as my shirt falls open further and I am a matchstick under his flint-like gaze.

My cheeks blaze. I think about how every bit of this is his fault. I think about how I hate him and his annoying charm for tricking me into coming back here. About his paramour eyes, his satyr smile—I think I hate those things most.

Such ire grounds me.

I pop the final button, slip my shirt off one shoulder, then the other. The pale blue fabric pools at my waist, draping over the crooks of my elbows. A subtle shift and I’m pushing my arms flush against my ribcage, giving him the best view.

 _It’s all for show_ , I tell myself, over and over. To see if I can make him flinch. It’s just a game of Russian Roulette, after all. Harmless, as long as I am the one with the gun.

When I meet his eyes again, at last, every second of this humiliation is worth it. The man’s arms have fallen slack at his sides. His precious designer jacket all but forgotten, nearly grazing the floor.

Gone is the taunting smirk. Every sharp edge of him smoothed over by wonderment. Or maybe it is consternation.

Either way, I am plagued by the thought that I should very much like to see him dishevelled.

I should like to see him come undone.

I give a coy smile and bat my lashes mockingly. “Did you get a good enough inspection, doctor?”

To my delight, he swallows audibly. Opens his mouth as if to speak, then snaps it shut.

 _Maybe_ he _needs a doctor,_ I think and give a little snort. With a roll my eyes, I try to beat back the tide of my own desire.

I shove my wadded up shirt into his chest, unceremonious. “You’re drooling,” I tell him, my voice miraculously even. That seems to snap him out of it.

He blinks twice, clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t need more than ice and a bit of aloe,” he says, then takes my shirt in his free hand.

I snatch the jacket from his other and shrug it on. My arms slide easily into the satin-lined sleeves. It’s still warm and smells like him. A forest and something burning. I hate that I notice at all—that whatever odious perfume he’s wearing is something I’ve committed to memory. Most of all, I hate the shiver that roils up my spine because of it.

I fold my arms across my chest and risk a glance at the man.

He’s frowning at the bottle of white wine vinegar in his hands. The way he glares at it, you’d think it had committed some heinous crime. There is a slight tinge of pink on his moon-pale cheeks.

A trifle smile tugs at my lips. It’s good to know I get under his skin as much as he gets under mine.

“So,” I say, flipping my hair out from under the jacket, “How do I look?”

He glances in my direction, face unreadable. An unbothered sweep of his gaze. “Not at all like an old man in a bathrobe,” he says, opening the bottle.

With a flourish, he adds a splash of vinegar to the bowl.

“I should hope not,” I say, raising my arms slightly to examine the jacket. “I think I look like the finest baroque rug Insmire has to offer.”

The laugh that barrels from Unfortunately Attractive Dude is genuine. “I’ll pass your compliments along to the artist.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Nonetheless,” he says, “I suspect it’s as close to one as anything you usually give.” He reaches for my shirt and dunks it in the water. Immediately, a bit of the stain lifts away, turning the water a cloudy colour.

He’s not wrong, and it irks me. I shift my gaze back to the jacket.

All things considered, I’m shocked at how well it fits. It’s a little long, and the sleeves swallow my hands in a river of red and black fabric. But what I lack in height, I make up for in other things. The man is lean enough to where the rest of his jacket is filled easily by the swell of my breasts, the sweep of my hips.

“I’ll admit,” he says, swishing the contents of the bowl around with his hands, “It suits you. Might even look better on you than it does on me.”

“Really?” I gasp, a teasing thing.

“I said _might_ ,” he mumbles, stirring and pointedly not meeting my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I most certainly will.”

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing and adds dish soap to the bowl.

“You never told me your name,” I blurt. Mostly to fill the silence, but also because my not knowing is starting to get a bit weird.

He furrows his brows as if he’s never been asked the question before. Or he is surprised I even have to ask. Like I said. Self-important.

“I didn’t,” he says, smirking down at the bowl.

I wait. When he does not oblige me, I give him a stern look. “Is that information classified or something?” I ask. “Too personal? Because let me tell you, pal, you’ve seen me in my bra.”

“Yes. And?”

I almost cringe at the reminder. He has probably seen many people in various states of undress. I am no one special.

“ _And_ ,” I say, pasting a sickly sweet smile on my lips, “I usually like to know the names of people who’ve seen me in my bra.”

“You say that as if it happens often.”

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the blush rising in my cheeks. “And you say _that_ as if you mean to distract me.” He continues to work my shirt around with his hands, dutifully ignoring my glare. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because,” he says, voice contemplative, “I thought you already knew it.”

“ _Should_ I know it?”

He shrugs. “We’re in the same politics lecture. With Dulcamara. You sit in the back row every week.”

“So you’re stalking me.” I’m only half-joking. The other half is starting to get worried that maybe I _will_ end up in tiny little pieces out back if I’m not careful. My eyes flit to the bouquet of knives at the end of the counter.

“No,” he says, adding a squeeze of rubbing alcohol to the mix. “I’m just good with people. And faces.”

While he stirs, I cock my head to the side, trying to dredge up his likeness from the faces in my memory. I’m quite certain if I had ever seen a face like his, I would’ve remembered it.

Though truth be told, Dulcamara’s lectures are the most interesting my department has to offer. I often do not notice the people around me.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He looks at me, brows arched in amusement.

I grit my teeth. “That lecture is one of the busiest ones. And why should I pay attention to the people when the lecture is far more—”

“Gripping?” His grin is a slash of white. “You’d certainly be the first to think so.”

“At least I think for myself,” I snap.

“A good quality to be sure,” he says. “But as driven a person as you are, Jude, I’d have thought you’d be more observant.”

My heart skitters to a halt. It’s one thing to know my face but…

“How do you know my name,” I demand, boring a glare into his skull. “You _are_ stalking me.”

“It’s hardly stalking, darling, if neither of us has any choice in the matter of attending,” he points out. “Besides, it’s really hard to _not_ know your name. Since you answer all of Dulcamara’s questions with such… thoroughness.” Some emotion I can’t quite read, settled so perplexingly between admiration and disdain, feeds his expression as he says this.

I am not entirely sure what to make of it.

But I do know what he’s said is true. I am usually the only voluntary participant in Dulcamara’s lectures. And I suppose if he knows enough about my track record for participation, he probably _does_ go to Royal Greenbriar.

I’m weighing my options when Liliver careens through the door.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” she says, making for our counter in the back of the kitchen. She has two steaming cups in her hands, and had I not been sitting so high up, I might’ve dropped to my knees to kiss the ground she walks on.

“Busy out there?” the man-who-has-annoyingly-not-been-named mutters.

“You were at the tail end of the rush,” Liliver says, then frowns. “Though it doesn’t seem like you’re in much of a hurry here.”

She eyes the array of supplies, my shirt in the bowl of now-dirty water, her co-worker’s jacket on my shoulders. She says nothing. Only hands me one of the cups.

“One large caramel cappuccino, extra shot, to-go,” she says, giving me a wink.

I thank her and take a much-needed sip.

Liliver turns to the man. “And one hot chocolate for you, _Your Highness_.” She makes a mockery of a bow as she hands him his drink.

He scowls but grunts his appreciation, placing the to-go cup on the counter next to him. When he turns back to the bowl, the barista grins wickedly at me. I return it in kind. Yes, I very much like Liliver.

“Any luck with the stain?” she asks the man.

He fishes my blouse out of the bowl. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, Lil,” he says, then shuffles over a few steps before wringing the fabric over the sink.

“As star employee, _anything_ that happens in my kitchen is my business.” She offers a lewd waggle of her brows.

I take a sip of coffee to hide the blooming heat on my face. I was sure the door had been closed… Then, a small, dreadful thought bubbles to the surface.

Perhaps her coworker has a reputation for luring potential conquests back here. Perhaps he’s done this one-hundred times before, and Liliver has learned the basic machinations of it.

Though it’s doubtful anyone gave a show quite so revealing as mine. Also doubtful he’s had quite that many conquests, even with his considerable beauty. One-hundred is a very high number. Isn’t it?

Still, if I am correct in guessing his design, I vow to make the man pay in more than just coffee and laundering expertise.

“Need I remind you,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude drawls, “It is technically _my_ kitchen _always_. So I am under no obligation to tell you.”

 _His kitchen?_ He’d been modest before, I realise, when he told me he works here.

“Not like you to pull rank,” Liliver huffs, affronted. “What’s got your panties in a knot, Greenbriar? Is it girl troubles? Because if it is—”

But I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

~~~A single word and everything becomes slow, slanting. I stare down at the tile floor. The world warps around me, as if held on the end of a bungee cord stretched taut, and I am about to be flung helpless back into the air.

Something in my stomach curdles. It has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Anyway,” Liliver is saying, her voice very far away, “You asked me to remind you if you’re still here that you have a meeting in ten minutes.”

I am still staring at the grout between tiles. At the grit there. The grime. My skin is awash with the slick feeling of it.

“Yes,” the man says in my periphery. “Thank you, Liliver.”

“For the record, I don’t get paid enough for this,” she says, and I have the vague sense she is heading for the door. “The personal assisting. The moods. The general… _weirdness_.”

His laugh is muffled, awful. Like the thud of marbles on carpet. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

“It’s the least you could do,” she sings over her shoulder, and she’s out the door again.

Then, we are alone. But I am not here. I am sometime else.

I feel all that black water clapping at my ears as I swam that day. My lungs burned raw with panic and bile and sea salt. The boat, a little orange firefly flickering in the distance, appearing and disappearing with the rise and fall of waves.

The sea is a lady. When she swallows you whole, she does so without a sound. Drowning is always quiet. So is rage, which is an awful lot like drowning. Everything happens beneath, simmering to the surface like so many bubbles. They were certainly one and the same that day.

I think they are one and the same now.

Flame licks my face and static pricks my tongue. My heart thrashes slow in my chest, a kind of silent drowning. My head is swimming just as poorly. **~~~**

When I resurface, I am met with only silence and that one word ringing in my ears.

_Greenbriar. Greenbriar. Greenbriar._

***********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the major cliffhanger but the evil author in me had to *cue villainous laughter* 😈 so it’s been an age and a half since I last updated this fic, but here it is! Thank you so much for reading!! Hope you enjoyed :) If you did, please let me know in the comments, reblogs, my ask box/inbox. Even if it’s just a keyboard smash, it genuinely brightens my day to read.
> 
> I’ve been busy developing the plot for this one and let me tell you, there is SO MUCH to be revealed, I can hardly contain myself. No promises, but I’m about halfway through writing the next chapter so hopefully it will only take me one single age to post that.
> 
> If you’d like to be added to the tag list for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here (or any other Jurdan content I post), let me know via comment/ask/message!! I'm slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. 
> 
> -em 🖤💫
> 
> Title Inspo: Simmer by Hayley Williams


	3. Rival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ire is a thin blanket around us, an opaline veil that makes everything shimmer and sharpen with pristine clarity. I have never felt more alive as I do when I look at him, and feel nothing but hatred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild cursing. Minor mentions of anxiety, panic, murder.

He is hanging my shirt to dry on a shelf, high up where I can’t reach, weighting it down with two cans of coffee beans.

I stare at his back. The black fabric of his shirt pulls into ripples and waves as he moves. The sleeves are still rolled up past his elbows, exposing pale forearms and the creeping blue veins there.

In the front of the coffee shop, customers continue their prattling, spoons continue pinging against ceramic mugs. The espresso machine drones on. All of it sounds muffled from beyond the kitchen door.

In here, though, there is only the refrigerator’s low thrum and my raging heart loud in my ears.

 _Greenbriar._ My mind reels. This man, my classmate—a Greenbriar progeny.

Namesakes of the city’s most prestigious university and beneficiaries of a mega-corporation called The Mab Group, the six children of Eldred Greenbriar are not quite heirs to all of Insmire, but they may as well be for how much power their name holds.

If the heir in front of me is in one of my mandatory lectures, he must also be in the same year as me. Which can only mean one thing.

I look up at him with renewed hatred.

He appraises me, taking up a casual stance leaning against the island countertop right across from where I sit. He crosses his arms and seems entirely unaffected by my serrated gaze. Which only makes me grit my teeth harder.

“You seem awfully quiet, Jude,” he says, voice made of velvet. “Have you pieced it together? Have you figured out who I am?”

I have to fight to keep my breath from going ragged, my hands from shaking. I grip the edge of the counter with a vengeance. It’s my only tether to sanity.

He brushes one knuckle across my whitened ones. They are nearly as white as his, now. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. The laugh that skitters from his lips is hushed and dry, like a centipede’s legs scraping as it scuttles through seared grass.

Out of every pompous prick in the Greenbriar line, the one who stands before me is by far the worst. And not just because he spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse—though that has certainly been added to the growing list of all the reasons why I hate him.

I have only ever seen his name on paper. A list tacked to a bulletin board outside the Politics and International Relations department. Three names, one from each year. His name instead of my own. For a year, that list has haunted me.

Cardan Greenbriar is known for his debauchery, not his intellect. He’s the kind of entitled that makes me want to paint the wall with his brains. And then my own. This, a kind approximation of his person, I’m sure.

Perhaps that’s why it hurt so much when he won Top Scholar last year. Perhaps that’s why I never learned his face—knowledge of it would only derail me from my goal.

“I have to say,” Cardan continues, “I’m disappointed it took you so long to deign to work it out.”

“Starved for attention, are we?” I hiss through my teeth.

Something I can’t quite decipher snaps across his face; but then it’s back to that cool veneer, and I wonder if I imagined it. One corner of his mouth tugs up.

“Figures,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his and towards the ceiling. Mostly to distract myself from that corner. “Your whole family seems to think the world revolves around them. I’m surprised you haven’t keeled over with the weight of my offence.”

“On the contrary. I find your not knowing me… refreshing.” He starts unrolling his shirt sleeves.

It is an exceedingly nice shirt for a day off. Come to think of it, all of his clothes are exceedingly nice. Gilded filigree triangles make the tips of his collar look dipped in gold. Between them, right where his top button should be, clings a black onyx brooch in the shape of a beetle.

I narrow my eyes. This is obviously a rouse of some sort. I think about how kind he acted before. His seemingly innocuous request to help get the stain out of my shirt. His sudden change in demeanour. There’s something missing, but I can’t figure out what. I don’t like it—this waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What do you want with me?” I ask.

“The same thing you want with me, Jude,” he says, black tourmaline eyes unflinching. He buttons his cuffs. “I want to ruin you.”

I clench my jaw as his words soak in. My nostrils flare. My heartbeat is so wild in my chest I think I might die. Or be sick. 

I want to tell him the feeling is absolutely mutual. I want to breathe fire and be livid and berate him for the crime of his family’s existence. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I know what will get under his skin most.

“I want _nothing_ to do with you,” I say, sticking out my chin, defiant.

Cardan’s mouth splits into a hideous smile that must usually be reserved for the pillow and languorous mornings in bed. Though, I suppose for him, such mornings probably lie within the same realm of pleasure as tormenting enemies in the kitchens of what is apparently _his_ coffee shop.

“Fortunately,” he says, pushing off the counter, “You won’t have anything to do with me much longer. I have a meeting.” He holds out a hand. I blink at him. “Jacket please.”

“Like hell,” I seethe, clutching at the lapels.

“Fine.” He drops his hand. “An interview without a statement piece wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for today. Though, I suppose it shouldn’t matter.” He straightens his collar, his black beetle brooch. “Dain will hire me regardless.”

Something sinks in my stomach like a stone. _Dain._

Dain Greenbriar. CEO of the Silhouette Gazette, taking time out of his very busy schedule to interview today, and only today, for one coveted position amongst his team of interns. Dain Greenbriar, _his_ brother and _my_ would-be boss, had I not been so foolishly diverted.

But I _have_ been a fool. One look at Cardan tells me this. The spill, the innocent act, the plea to help me. It was all a ruse. Strung up and sutured by none other than the youngest Greenbriar, himself—and I, a much too eager victim.

He’s smirking and my face heats. Something roils right under my skin, white-hot. Just waiting to be unleashed.

So I unleash it.

I lunge. Across the countertop. I am diving, scrabbling, reaching.

Right for the knife block. Metal sings as I rip one free. A sound almost as glorious as the way it feels to angle a blade right at Cardan’s throat.

He braces his hands on the countertop behind him but does not lift a finger to defend himself.

I only see red, and the way he regards me cooly. A smirk juts the cliffs of his cheekbones. The steel I hold to his skin reflects his face so that I see it twofold. Even my own weapon taunts me.

He looks down his nose at me, despite being held at the peril of my blade. I know then what it is to loathe with my entire being.

“That internship is mine,” I tell him, my breath a jagged thing in my lungs.

“Looks unlikely, sunshine,” he says, and I want to scream. “What with you missing your interview and all.”

“Because of _you_ , you snivelling little coward.” I press the knife’s edge flush against his throat. His eyes shutter. It’s the only surrender I get to savour before I am fixed with his stare once more.

“Ouch,” he mocks. “ _Not_ nice words.” Though he is smirking, his gaze glitters dangerously, as if he might murder me outright. Even though _I’m_ the one with the knife.

“You took Top Scholar from me last year,” my voice quakes. Bile rises in my throat at the admission of it—my one and only failure. Until today, at least.

“Took?” His brows rise high and arrogant on his forehead. “I think I _won_ that title from you, fair and square. Upset that someone bested you for once?”

“Please,” I scoff, indignant. “You’re a nefarious moneybags prick. Your family probably paid someone off.”

His laugh is surprised and derisive at once. “Nefarious moneybags prick,” he muses, giving me a full grin. “Now _that_ , I have not heard before. Kind of a mouthful, though. Got any nicknames?”

I only lean in closer, pressing the knife harder. One slip of my hand and— “Give me your interview slot.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“You’re quite confident for someone held at knifepoint,” I say through gritted teeth. “Give me your slot.”

“What are you going to do? Murder me about it?”

“You really want to test that theory?”

He considers me for a moment from under hooded lids. His eyelashes are stupidly long. It’s disgusting. “Even if you had the balls to do it, which I don’t doubt you do,” he says. “You wouldn’t. Wanna know why?”

“Why?” I say with ample venom.

“Because it would cost you everything,” he tells me. “How my father would froth at the mouth for the opportunity to put you in shackles.”

Ire is a thin blanket around us, an opaline veil that makes everything shimmer and sharpen with pristine clarity. I have never felt more alive as I do when I look at him, and feel nothing but hatred.

“It’ll be your word against mine,” I say, “And you’ll be dead.”

Cardan rolls his eyes. “Even if you had a valid excuse for murder, which you don’t,” he points out, “And even though my family does not give a rat’s festering ass about _me_ , they would not hesitate for a moment to rip _you_ apart in court. To see the Duarte name trampled down into the dirt where it belongs.”

I know what Cardan says is true. I would revel in dragging the Greenbriars down to the deepest trenches of hell, even if it took me with them. Just as surely as they would relish in my demise. It has always been this way. For as long as I can remember.

I am sure he reads this all on my face as I think it because his smile is a sharp gash of white.

“You may have held the title of Top Scholar once, but I bested you last year,” he says. My mind sieges against the notion. “And though I fully intend on doing so again this year, if you murder me for it, you won’t even be in the running for the title come tomorrow morning. No, the only title you will ever hold for the rest of your small, pathetic life will be Inmate.”

I almost concede a flinch. _Small. Pathetic._

I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to get under my skin, and credit where credit’s due: It almost works. But my fickle temperament, his not knowing what I will do next; these are my only chances at gaining control again.

I cannot show my hand.

So as my instincts scream against it, I tilt my chin up to look at him. “And how are you so very sure, _Greenbriar,_ ” I spit, “That Inmate is not a worthy enough title for me?”

“Because, Jude,” he says my name like it is his favourite flavour of sin, and I despise the way my heart flies into my throat at the sound, “It’s not. I am observant if nothing else. I happen to know that being locked behind bars is a far cry from what you crave most.”

“As if you’d be privy to what I crave,” I say, though my stomach turns itself in knots, my grip loosening on the knife. Because he’s right. He’s so very right, I am nauseous at the thought of it.

Cardan shrugs. “Believe me, or not. I have my ways of knowing,” he says. Then, with the newfound space I have given him, he leans down close to my ear. “I reckon, however, that I am far too insignificant a name on what is presumably a very extensive blacklist for you to be kept from your higher ambitions by murdering me on a whim of passion.”

He makes a lazy trail with his index finger from my left elbow up my arm. My cheeks blaze, but the skin still pebbles there. _I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._

“There are so many more valuable prizes for you plunder,” he croons, breath fanning across my face. He leans back a bit to look me in the eye. “Aren’t there, dear Jude?”

It is the secret of myself unravelled before me. I cannot bear how vulnerable it makes me feel. I stagger back, breathless, and blink.

My knife is in his hand. _How did it get there? How had he taken it without my noticing?_ He’s moving away from me now.

“As lovely as this little meeting has been,” Cardan says, sheathing the knife back in its stand, “I think I’ll be going now.”

He brushes himself off, grabs his to-go cup from the counter, and I’m standing there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open. He pauses in front of me before he goes. I’m not sure what it means when he frowns, but I hope he feels every poisoned dagger I sink into his skull.

Then, Cardan does the very last thing I expect.

Every inch of me goes still as he takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and tucks it carefully behind my ear.

“It really was quite the show,” he murmurs. As if we are lovers tangled in sumptuous silk sheets. Instead of what we really are.

Rivals. Luring each other into cages of our own making.

Just like that, he's gone, and I am left alone with my threadbare self.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

It takes me all of twenty seconds to react. I count them going by on the ticking hand of my cracked watch as I try to cobble together a plan, try to breathe. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, all my demons crawling to the surface. But I’ll be damned if I let them win. If I let _him_ win.

Then, I am chugging my cappuccino. It’s lukewarm. The syrup has pooled at the bottom and I get it all in one gulp. Sickly sweet and absolutely revolting, but I need the fuel.

When I’m done, little rivulets of coffee stream down my cheeks. I wipe them off with the sleeve of Cardan’s black jacket, grab my bag from the floor, and start running. I leave my shirt hanging to dry on the shelf. Buttoned, the jacket covers me enough and I cannot waste time. Not now.

I careen through the metal doors, apologizing to a grumbling Liliver as I sprint out from behind the counter, and wonder just how much Cardan’s glorified bathrobe would go for on eBay. He _did_ say it was designer…

Finally, I’m outside again. It’s stopped hailing, and the air is blessedly cool. It helps me sort through my muddled thoughts.

I see Cardan’s wretched curls bobbing up ahead. He stops for the red man on the pedestrian signal. Idiot.

My breath swirls around me. I look both ways and dive between a reasonably spaced motorcycle and a bus onto the median in the middle of the road. Then between a bus and a less reasonably spaced car, who has to put on their breaks. The driver lays on the horn and I flick him off over my shoulder.

I’m already on the opposite side of the road, flying through the heavy glass doors of the Silhouette skyscraper. I don’t look back to see Cardan’s face, though I can imagine some pretty satisfying expressions on my own.

It’s enough to help me form the next steps of my plan.

I survey the lobby. It’s all glass and dark wood and marble. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It smells like coffee and expensive cologne. Moneybag pricks, indeed.

There’s a sign to the right for the lifts; and right next to it, the door to the stairs.

The Gazette’s main offices are on the fifteenth floor. Which is actually probably the fourteenth floor, when you factor in people’s weird aversion toward the number thirteen. The stairs would be faster, anyway. Especially if there were multiple stops on the lift. Or many.

I think I could climb thirteen stairs. I don’t think Cardan could.

Moving as quickly as I can without drawing too much attention, I slip into the stair-well. I climb one floor, slip out into the hall, press the lift call button, slip back into the stair-well, and climb to the next level.

I do this thirteen more times, pressing the lift call buttons on every floor. I get some weird stares, some alarmed looks from people passing by. But mostly, I ignore them. My vision is tunnel-like.

I cannot let Cardan beat me. Everything I’ve been working toward for the past thirteen years is riding on this internship. If I can get just two minutes alone with Dain, maybe I can convince him to let me reschedule my interview. Maybe I can fix this.

By the fourth floor, my thighs start to burn. My feet slap against the concrete steps. The sound echoes off the stair-well walls.

_Small, pathetic._

_To see the Duarte name trampled down into the dirt where it belongs._

_I want to ruin you._

_It really was quite the show._

It’s that last one that sets me sprinting. By the tenth floor, I am heaving breaths. My lungs feel like they’re full of hot lead. The only things keeping me going are my goal and Cardan’s extremely punchable face like a beacon in my mind’s eye. _I hate him I hate him I hate him._ It drives me.

Finally, I slam my shoulder into the door with a sign next to it that reads, FLOOR 15, in bright red.

I spill out into a warmly lit hall. It’s lined with framed newspapers, chic black and white photographs of the city, and one large gilded mirror. There’s a potted organza sitting on a copper accent table just opposite the lifts, but not much else.

The set of glass double-doors to my right reads, “THE SILHOUETTE GAZETTE”, just above the handles, in bold black lettering. The same doors my mother walked through to get her internship here when she was my age. The same doors she walked through every day for so many years after.

No time, no time, no time. Cardan is hot on my tail. I can’t be sentimental, now.

I’m a little frazzled, but only a tad sweaty. I glance at the mirror. No, that’s utter bullshit. I look like I’ve walked through a sprinkler.

I take a moment to straighten my pencil skirt. Smooth the hair away from my face, dab the sheen on my forehead and nose and chin and everywhere else with the back of my hand. No time.

I roll the sleeves of the ridiculous jacket so they don’t swallow my hands. The red lining is vibrant against stark black. I throw my shoulders back, and before I begin to doubt myself, stride toward the doors.

My boots click against the dark granite tiles, but when I step over the threshold, it’s all grey carpet and phones ringing, the shuffling of hurried feet and stacks of paper.

The familiar smell of freshly pressed ink greets me. The man behind the reception desk straight ahead does not.

The receptionist is burly and bald, save for a tuft of black hair right on the top of his head, pulled back into a small bun. Blue ink creeps from underneath the collar and sleeves of his crisp white button-down. Tattoos. Lots of them. He wears a floral printed tie and doesn’t glance up from the computer when I approach.

I clear my throat. “Ex—cuse me,” I say. “I’m… here for an interview? With Dain Greenbriar. About an… internship?”

“Are you sure about that?” the man asks in a gruff voice, still typing away.

My brows cinch. “Yes. I scheduled it weeks ago.”

“It’s just…” he looks up at me then, “You don’t sound so sure. Besides, he’s in a meeting right now.”

My jaw clenches. “No. Actually. He’s not,” I say as politely as I can, then throw a glance over my shoulder to make sure Cardan isn’t on his way to dropkick a wrecking ball right through my life. Again. “I’m his 8:20. I know I’m incredibly late, but I got into an accident on the way here.” It isn’t technically a lie, but it slides from my tongue just as smoothly.

The receptionist gives me a disapproving look. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I really only need five minutes of his time,” I say, breathless. “Could you please. _Please._ Just page him. Everything in my life depends on it.”

He raises one brow, regarding me dubiously. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”

“Look,” I say, starting to panic, “I don’t have much time to explain before the world’s largest middle finger to the very foundation of this establishment walks through those doors and ruins everything. But if you do this for me, and I get this internship, I will bring you coffee every morning for two months.”

He’s silent for so long, I think he’s going to reject my offer. But then he says, “Make it three. Regardless of whether you get the internship.”

“Deal,” I blurt before I can stop myself. Before I can think about the strangeness of his contention. I certainly don’t have time to haggle.

The receptionist sighs, lifting the phone to his ear. Punches a few numbers. Listens. “Wait over there,” he mouths at me and points to a cluster of sleek leather chairs in the corner of the entryway that look about as comfortable as your standard park bench.

I thank him silently and head over, plopping down on the nearest one. I was right. It feels like I’m six again and sitting on the lap of my sister, Vivienne, whose legs are notoriously spindly.

The receptionist is muttering words I cannot hear into the phone’s receiver. I presume it’s Dain, but for all I know, he could be talking to Glinda in accounting, or _whoever_. Laughing about the silly little girl who just fell through the doors, looking for all the world like she’d been down the rabbit hole and had to claw her way back up to get here. He wouldn’t be far off, if I’m honest.

Or worse, maybe he’s calling security.

I shove those thoughts from my mind and lean back in the chair. My right leg starts to jiggle like it always does when I’m nervous. I lean forward again, bracing my elbows on my knees. I need to focus.

There’s a sudden movement in my periphery. A tall man in a navy blue suit enters the reception area. His golden crown of curls and swaggering demeanour clue me in enough. Dain Greenbriar.

The last time I saw the second eldest, and arguably the most decent of the Greenbriar progenies, was thirteen years ago. In a rescue chopper. Above a boating accident. He was in the pilot’s seat flying the chopper, while Madoc was tending to my sisters and I. But I still remember his confident air, that dash of white smile when he told us everything was going to be okay. Even though it wasn’t.

He hasn’t changed much.

“Miss Duarte,” Dain says, stopping near the reception desk. I wonder briefly if it’s a power play. Make me come to him. It’s fair enough, if that’s his ploy. It’s what I would do.

I’m surprised I’m not more phased by the memory of him. I expect to feel an inexplicable sense of dread. I expect it to be difficult to see him now, in the flesh, but it’s not. I feel nothing. Maybe that’s the difficulty. Or maybe this is just the tip of the iceberg.

I rise to my feet and make swift but assertive strides.

The thumping of the chopper was so loud that day, I don’t think anyone said much. So I’m not sure I’ve officially met him. Though, I could be remembering it wrong.

I stick out my hand anyway. “Mr Greenbriar,” I say. “I apologise for my delay. I was in an accident and couldn’t get here sooner. Thank you for meeting with me.”

He looks me over none too swiftly. He’s either decided that my appearance is evidence enough of my story, or that I’m attractive enough to forgive the faux-pas, because he takes my hand in his, giving it a firm shake that I return in kind.

“As much of a pleasure as it is to see you again, Miss Duarte—”

“Please. Call me Jude,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ Who the hell do I think I am, cutting off the man who’s about to hire me?

Dain’s smile is small and savours highly of pity. A sinking feeling starts in my gut. “Jude,” he continues, apologetic, “I wish we could be meeting again under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I have an appointment very soon and quite the busy schedule today.”

“I only need a few minutes of your time, Mr Greenbriar.”

“You understand, Jude, that we take our internships here at The Silhouette very seriously.”

“Yes, of course. I am one-hundred percent serious.”

“Unfortunately,” he says, “Interviews at the Silhouette require more than a few minutes to be conducted.”

“I’m sure I can give you a shortened version. When is your next appointment?” I ask, and he pauses, then looses a hesitating laugh. I realise too late that he’s not laughing at my gusto. He’s laughing at something over my shoulder.

“Now, apparently,” Dain tells me.

I whirl around and see a most loathly figure walking through the doors.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: We love a petty Jude. Just hitting all those lift buttons on her way up. Also some of y’all guessed it but Jude definitely went for those knives huh. Anyways, thank you so much for reading! If you liked this chapter please do let me know, via comment/reblog/keyboard smash! It truly does help me recharge my writing energy, and I appreciate every single one.  
> If you’d like to be added to the tag list on Tumblr for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here, let me know via comment/ask/message!! I am slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Tumblr. Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. -em 🖤💫
> 
> Title Inspo: Rival by Ruelle


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